


I Am My Own Worst Enemy

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bartender Castiel, Because of Reasons, Caring Castiel, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Drunk Dean, Fluff and Humor, Hungover Dean, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, plenty of cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I must have been pretty smashed,” he admitted lamely. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, suddenly self-conscious.</p><p>"Are you kidding? You had enough liquid courage in you to unsink the Titanic." A small chuckle escaped him that screamed f*** me sideways. Then again, there’s a small chance he had it mistaken for his own internal dialogue. “That is, after you tried to fight me.”</p><p>Dean’s brain short-circuited. “Wait, what?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am My Own Worst Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song by Lit.
> 
> Inspired by this OTP prompt found on Tumblr:
> 
> “I drunkenly tried to fight you and knocked myself out but you were kind enough to take care of me till I woke up.”

To say Dean awoke with a startle would be an understatement.  

His heart pounded not nearly as enthusiastically as his head. Everything was eerily quiet, save for the sound of his body scrambling to sit up and _yeah_ ,those were a few unsettling _clicks_ and _pops_ coming from his joints. And what was that blood he tasted in his mouth?

Not long after, his eyes adjusted to the scene around him. He was in his apartment—that much he knew by the _Battlestar Galactica_ memorabilia (hey, it’s a hobby) and the faint smell of overdue laundry prickling his nose—but something was off. He couldn’t quite make out what until an unmistakable figure was looming over him, nursing a glass of milk. He was too lean to be Benny and too handsome to be Garth, so—

“Who are you?” Dean demanded, nearly jumping out of his socks because that seemed to be the only thing he had on underneath a poncho-sized blanket. _Naked and Afraid, Part II: Revenge of the One-Night Disaster._

“I’m the guy that saved your backside,” the man stated in a voice that sounded like he was carving gospel into stones, “but you can call me Cas.”

Dean blinked and the room spun momentarily. “How did you find my house?”

“No offense, _agent,_ ” he said, pulling out his wallet, “but your undercover work isn’t all that undercover when you’re waving your ID around claiming you’re a Bikini Inspector.”

Dean swiped the leather-bound case out of his surprisingly soft fingers with a cross huff. “For your information, I’m retired from the force. I have clearance to say those things.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you don’t.” Dean ignored that, running his thumb over each fold in his wallet, checking forward and back that—

“Everything’s there,” Cas said, putting his mind at ease. “I’m not a savage.”

"Alright, well, not to be too presumptuous in my own home, but why am I naked?"

"Nothing happened," he assured, and if Dean knew him past a stranger, he might have detected the hint of disappointment in his tone. "I wish I could say the same for your clothes. After showering yourself in red wine and slipping every guy and his girlfriend your 1-800, you developed a sort of, uh..." He paused, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and _God,_ you'd think he'd remember someone so ridiculously attractive the next day, "...incontinence in your lower extremities."

Yeah, that sounds like him. “I must have been pretty smashed,” he admitted lamely. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, suddenly self-conscious.

"Are you kidding? You had enough liquid courage in you to unsink the Titanic." A small chuckle escaped him that screamed _fuck me sideways._ Then again, there’s a small chance he had it mistaken for his own internal dialogue. “That is, after you tried to fight me.”

Dean’s brain short-circuited. “Wait, what?”

“You were somehow fixated on the idea that I fucked your brother,” he explained, a blush penciling in his five-o-clock shadow that Dean had no doubt acquired himself, “even though I barely met the guy as he was pulling you off of me.”

Yeah, that was definitely him. He buried his face in his hands as he sat up fully, an irrepressible wave of recollection crashing down on him. “Oh, God, it was his bachelor party. I fucked over my baby brother’s bachelor party.”

“If it’s any consolation, you won over the bartender’s affections.”

Dean stared at him through his grimy fingers. Cas was sitting opposite of him on the recliner, fiddling nervously with his own and peering up at him with expectant blue eyes. Then a single, intelligible thought ran through Dean’s head:

 _Oh_.

Because what else could you think to say to someone who confesses their feelings for you? Especially when that said someone was a vision from top to bottom. His ocean blue eyes alone did no favors to the pressure currently mounting his cock. Cas either noted his discomfort or had a weird oral fixation because his bottom lip was disappearing between his teeth again and _damn_ , if this was a dream he never wanted to wake up.

“Do you mind if I…?” Dean said, gesticulating to his half-nakedness. Cas nodded before lifting his feet to let him pass. The blanket pooled dangerously low around his hips as he stood up, causing Dean to blush furiously and Cas to duck his head like he’d been scolded.

“Be my guest—or, _your_ guest, technically, since it’s your house,” he heard as he descended down the hallway, almost forgetting what it felt like to smile.

He came back from a much-needed shower, dressed loosely in a faded Metallica jersey and pajama bottoms, surprised to find that Cas wasn’t there, only further convincing him that he was, in fact, a figment of his post-drunken imagination. Except, the glass of milk he’d set on the coffee table moments earlier remained very much real and untouched.

He glanced at the clock above the living room. It was too late to be morning, but too early to be pulling a bartender’s shift. Then again, Dean’s fairly certain he wasn’t the only one who recycled the five-o-clock somewhere excuse.

It’s probably better he left, anyway. Dean felt a pang of guilt for keeping him here. It’s not like Cas asked to babysit his drunken ass. Dean was better off alone, fending for himself. He’d just drag other people down with him.

But then the sweet smell of fast food-style decadence tickled his nasal cavities and if this were a cartoon, he’d be swept off his feet. Cas bustled through the door a moment later, balancing half a dozen plates of fatty goodness on his arms. He turned sheepish when he saw Dean standing in the living room. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I made everything.”

“I, uh—” Cas wore a lopsided smile that further added to his speech impediment. “Um, uh… think I might be a little bit in love with you right now.”

Cas set down the food with a light chuckle. “Don’t say things you’ll regret tomorrow.”

“No, never,” Dean promised, shaking his head. “Not unless you don’t see me to dinner.”

The bartender took in the proposal with a mock-contemplative _hmm._ “First, let’s enjoy the food we have. Then maybe—just maybe—I might accompany you to dinner tomorrow.”

“You drive a tough bargain,” he said, crossing the distance, audacity from leftover alcohol running through his veins as he bent down to kiss him lightly on the cheek, “but it’s a deal.”

And from then on, he couldn’t be bothered with one-night stands.


End file.
